AC
by WC Sumpton
Summary: Byron, a pastor for a non-denominational church finds himself being recurited as a deciple for the 'wrong' side.
1. Part 1

**A.C.**

**Part 1**

"My Lord! My God!"

The scream, a deep-throated death roar, rattled Byron as the volume of those four little words echoed off the drab painted walls of the little room he occupied with the others. Byron felt a cold shiver rush down his spine as the muscles tighten at the rear of his neck. Instinctively, the priest brought his Bible around in front of him, gripping it tightly in both hands, the knuckles turning white with the effort applied.

A loud thud could be heard coming from beside him and Byron knew that his once good friend, Richard, had fallen to the floor, the sounds of his softly murmured prayer came to him from the floor.

"Father God, Whom art in Heaven, I come onto thee a humble servant…"

Richard's low whispered voice was soon swallowed by the deep gravelly voice of the much larger Bishop Martin as the vocalizations of his prayer came out in an indecipherable tongue of his own personal prayer language. Soon the whispering prayers of others joined in. But Byron suspected most, like him, stood silently. Some may have closed their eyes, but he could not, they were transfixed on the closed wooden door that separated their little room from his.

A barrier that separated them… him… from witnessing whatever torment was being suffered by the one that brought them together.

The second scream came as suddenly as the first, as a feeling of horror and anguish flowed out from that restraining portal. When the tormented words to his God reached Byron's ears, he found himself suddenly upon his knees, an old childhood prayer bubbling up through his throat, trained over his tongue and parsed between his lips.

"Our Father, Whom art in Heaven, Hollowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done…"

* * *

Autumn broke with two weeks of bitter cold air coming in from the north across the border. Today though, the slight breeze, though still coming from the north, brought with it a bit of warmth. Byron knew the proprietor of the tailor shop. Both the owner and his wife attended the Spanish services at the same church where he was a junior pastor. But on this Tuesday, husband and wife were both away, leaving their son, a very nice young man that Byron had not seen in the chapel for quite some time, in charge of the business.

The gentleman recognized the preacher as soon as he walked in and after a few vulgar word, directed towards his parents for trapping him there, escaped his mouth before his good business sense overcame his slight anger and he greeted the pastor warmly. After a quick check on Byron's order, and confirmation that his suit would be ready by Friday, the pastor was able to quickly guide their conversation towards the younger man's salvation.

The owner's son was a good man at heart and he understood that belief in Jesus was necessary for his salvation. But like many he was confused with the call of God and a commitment to The Body of Christ. This was becoming a common problem, and not just with the younger generation. It seemed as if both young and old alike were falling away from this church or that church. The rising economy, the unstable market, the war and the bad new from the world in general made these confusing times. And with all the uncertainty, Byron thought that the solidness brought by God would draw many to the temple doors. This was one of the main reasons that Byron's church had converted over to non-denominational. With sermons held four times on Sunday, twice in English, once in Spanish and again in Korean, their attendance at one time soared. But now the congregations were beginning to once again dwindle, almost as fast as they had originally risen.

Salvation was becoming a very tricky business, Satan was a very powerful adversary and man was falling more and more unto himself. But Salvation was Byron's job, and he liked nothing better then the warm feelings he received while performing his God appointed mission. A warmth he was now feeling as he impressed upon the young store attendant the worries of his parents and extracted a promise that he would join them come next Sunday. Then while he was reaching for his credit card and receipt, his jacket pocket erupted into praise.

"Praise The Lord! Praise The Lord! Praise The Lord!"

Deafly, with his left hand, Byron retrieved the singing device out of his right pocket and with a practice motion flipped open the little handset. Still holding both card and receipt he stole a quick glance at the little lighted screen and saw a name that momentarily froze his world.

'Richard'


	2. Part 2

**A.C.**

**Part 2**

'Richard'

A name Byron had not seen in well over a year

A name Byron had not seen in well over a year. Richard was a fellow pastor and at one time worked at the Assembly of God Church across town from his own. But Richard's home was only a few houses down from his own. Many summers Saturday bar-be-ques, Sunday, Monday night football games, some hockey, basketball and baseball and for two years their families grew really closes.

That was until Richard's late night call. He was very distressed, and after a few minutes he finally confessed to the elder pastor what had happened.

His wife had just caught him… With his male lover…

When Byron arrived at Richard's house, everything was dark, except a single light in their dining room. Pamela had taken the kids and left. There was a six-pack near the center of the table with one bottle missing. The missing bottle sat near one end of the dining room table, its contents almost completely emptied into a nearby-untouched glass with a foam head nearly and inch-and-a-half thick at the top.

Byron took a chair at the opposite end of the table from his friend. But as the night wore on, Byron found myself moving closer. And as dawn broke into their little sanctuary, they found themselves seated next to each other. Hands clasped together giving praise and prayer to our Lord.

The untouched glass and bottle were emptied into the kitchen sink, and the remaining five happily joining Byron on his short walk home. Two months later Richard's house went up for-sale, and the feeling of a soul lost to damnation set in.

"Praise The Lord! Praise The Lord! Praise The Lord!" As the phone's jungle interrupted Byron's thoughts. Taking his card and receipt and placing them into the now empty right jacket pocket, Byron brought the hymn-singing instrument to his ear. Clicking the answer button with one thumb, he made his way to the front door and exited into the midday sun.

"Byron? Its Richard!" Came a familiar, yet almost forgotten voice, through the handset before Byron could answer.

"Yes Richard," Byron replied while moving two steps away for the store's entrance. "It's been a while. How have you been?"

"I'm fine." Came the disembodied replay almost hurriedly. "Look, Byron, are you busy today… I mean right now? In the next couple of hours?"

"No Richard, I'm free. Can I help you with something?"

"Do you remember that coffee shop… about a block away for the church I use to work at? Where we use to have coffee on Sunday's? It's just after ten, say about eleven?"

"Sure Richard, I can be there. What's up?"

"Ahh… There someone I think you should… I mean, I would like you to meat. In about an hour then."

And then the line went dead with a beep. Byron stared momentarily at the little screen as the name vanished and it went dark. He didn't even get the chance to say good-bye.

Byron parked his white STS at an open meter across from the coffee shop. It had taken him just as long to drive, as it would have to walk, with the midday traffic. Opening the glove box, he removed his 'Pastor' place card and deposited it at his front windshield. There were some advantages to working for a non-profit organization.

With his Bible in hand, Byron crossed the street while he surveyed the occupants of the little shop, with the warm weather holding, and lunch approaching the coffee-house as fairly busy. But there was no sign of his old friend, maybe they too were held up in the building traffic.

His wait was not long, even though the line was growing. The present staff that was deployed behind the counter was very efficient. Byron had at one time known everyone that worked there, but that had been more then a year ago. Once he received his drink Byron turned from his examination of the new faces only to be slightly startled by see a thin, balding man in jeans with a light brown jacket standing at one of the outside table waving at him.

As Byron made his way out to the table, he closely examined his old friend. Richard was a very thin man and anything he wore on his slight frame always looked baggy. And even though Richard was a few years younger then Byron, Richard was bald on the top of his head and he kept the hair that grew around his ears and back of his head chopped close.

"Richard," Byron called as he placed his Bible on the empty table and switching hands with his iced caffeine drink to accept his friends offered hand. "You seem well." He added noting that the man did appear much happier since their last meeting.

"It has been… a little trying." The thin man replied, gripping Byron's hand with both of his. "Byron, this is…" with a nod of his head Richard directed Byron's attention towards the other occupant of the table, that was now rising to greet him. "…this is A.C."

Releasing his friend's hands, Byron examined the owner of the other offered hand. Byron was six-two, and this man appeared every bit as tall as him. With beige pants and a white shirt that, although appeared un-pressed seemed extraordinarily neat. The sleeves were button at the wrist and even though he didn't wear a tie, the top buttons at the collar were done. His black hair was neatly trimmed, with a touch of gray at the temples.

"A.C.?" Byron questioned the blue, almost metallic, eyes that stared back at him.

"Anything Comes to mind." The man answered as he released Byron's hand and indicated an open chair by Byron's Bible.

"Anything _That_ Comes to mind?" Byron rephrased as he watched the other return to his chair and he took the proffered seat

"There is no 'T'." The smiling blue eyes answered back.

Another name suddenly jumped into Byron's thoughts. As a preacher he had used the title in many of his Sunday sermons.

"You could address me as such." The man replied, as if reading Byron's thoughts.

With a quick glance, Byron caught Richard's slight nod, before returning his attention back to A.C..

"Now that the know each other, and have some idea of the other's profession." One of A.C.'s hands appeared over Byron's Bible, tapping it slightly. "How business?"

"What?" Came Byron's startled question with the directness of the other man's inquire.

"How is His work coming?" The still smiling blue eyes rephrased their opening question.

"Slow." Was Byron's quick answer, then, thinking the two were joking with him, they had to be joking, he quickly added, playing along. "Satan's touch runs deep, but we are saving souls everyday."

"Ahh… Evangelism and Missions… His greatest calling." Came A.C. reply

"One of them."

"But they are not the Greatest?" A.C. questioned.

"There are many Works that we are Called to do."

"But are any of them of equal to or of greater importance the these… Evangelism and Missions?"

"Well…" After a bit a though, Byron added, with a slight smile of his own. "I guess everything we do does point towards Evangelism and Missions. Yes, I'll agree with you for now. Evangelism and Missions are the Greatest Works of His Calling."

"In China," A.C. began quickly, "a man stands outside his room, it is a community dwelling, so he is outside in the near darkness." In Byron's mind a picture appeared of a little man, with hands clasped behind his back, pacing back and forth.

"Inside his room," the storyteller continued. "His wife is in labor. This is not their first child, but this time his wife's pregnancy has seemed a lot harder then before. He will soon learn that the baby, a boy, his new son, will survive, but his wife will die in the delivery.

"What will happen to her soul?" A.C. concluded.

"Well if she believes in Jesus…"

"She does not know of the Redeemer. As of now, their tiny village has yet to be visited by any missionaries. In fact, not more then a couple of miles down the dirt path, in another hamlet, a mission's vehicle awaits, the occupants not having enough money for gas to travel any further. What is the fate of her afterlife?"

"That is the reason for missions. Every effort has to be made so that all will hear and choose."

"Every effort?" Now the blue eyes danced in their coldness as the questioned the preacher. "Above all else?"

"Yes," Byron defended himself. "In the situation you've described, which must be prevented, it is tasked to us believers to reach out to all the unknowing."

"At what price?"

"What..?"

"What is the price of the unknowing, condemned soul? Is it the different between the cost of a glass of water," the hand that was resting upon Byron's Bible now lifted and indicated towards Byron, exposing before the other a glass of water, beads of sweat pooling in a ring at its base. "And an expensive drink the cost? Or the price of a new suit?

"Or maybe," the other man continued before Byron could answer. "He, Whom was sacrificed, will redeem the unknowing at the time of death. And if that is the case, then doesn't man's efforts steal from The One Whom could be considered the Greatest Missionary?"

There was silence as Byron found his thoughts fragmented. There were answers to this man's questions, but Byron was finding it hard to formulate the quick response the seemed necessary.

"I am afraid," the other spoke once again before Byron's thoughts could congeal, rising from his seat and extending a hand towards the preacher. "That I have taken enough of your valuable time Byron."

Slowly Bryon arose from his chair taking the others proffered hand.

"I must be leaving too," Richard said quickly, then adding just a quickly. "I mission out of the Corner Church, and they will need my help serving lunch."

Byron nodded towards his old friend, and watched him turn and depart from the table. When he turned back to the other, he was also gone, his chair neatly pushed beneath the table. As he surveyed the area, he caught no sight of the other man, and stood momentarily watching Richard's figure disappear around a corner. When Byron finally resumed his seat, his eyes focused on a pool of wetness across from him. Evidence that a glass of water had once been there. A glass he never witnessed arriving or departing.


End file.
